“What would you like on your sub, sir?” she asked.
Thing is, he didn’t have any money. He knew that very damn well, but he hadn’t eaten in two or three days, so now he was getting desperate.
He picks a bunch of random meats and cheeses. He doesn’t really care. He just wants to eat.
“Would you like that toasted?”
He muttered a quick confirmation. A toasted sandwich would be great during a snow storm. He coughs into a napkin that he keeps in his ragged, plaid jacket.
They need to devise a better system at this sandwich shop , he thinks.
You could just order a fucking sandwich and not have a fucking cent . He wonders if the campus police would beat him down just for stealing a damn sandwich.
Who even knows anymore?
He drums a quick tempo’d rhythm with his fingers as he waits. He sees a pretty girl and smiles. She looks down. He isn’t actively pursuing anyone at the moment. The loud clicking of his tongue draws a few glares, but he doesn’t care. The rhythm keeps going. He’s ready.
“Here you go. Go ahead and just take that sandwich to the counter.”
The rhythm stops. He takes the sandwich. He begins to tremble a bit due to his nature. He has his reservations and his doubts. What’s the worst that can happen?
"Prisoner number IBXSQWPI78965, why are you here?”
"Stealing a sandwich sir!”
The thought makes him laugh and he walks toward the register, which is conveniently placed by the exit door. Those damn bastards… a man can’t even steal a roast beef and provolone cheese sandwich with ease anymore. Dad was right, the Golden Age is over.
“Excuse me, sir, you either have to pay or swipe for that sandwich!” The register girl says.
He grunts and picks up the pace. He moves quickly and opens the glass door with one quick shove and his new treasure. With a nice, hefty sprint he escapes the jurisdiction of the campus sandwich defenders.
Now he sits by a tree with the sandwich.
"Eating was much easier back when I used to go there," he thinks aloud to himself.
